


Some New Infection

by BeingProtector



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1576091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeingProtector/pseuds/BeingProtector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in the time it takes to read, a brutal short about pain and displacement, taking place directly and indirectly after the Water Dance scene in the fifth episode of the fourth season. The title is from Romeo & Juliet, which this ain’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some New Infection

After hitting the girl to the ground with one swipe, the giant man in armour staunched back up the hillock to the horses and the damp fire remains. Arya remained on the grass by the river, the blue dome above her smiling stupidly, the water chuckling. She tasted the bitter of blood on her lips, and felt a brief swell of tears in her heart, but stiffened them with a frown. Shakily she got to her feet, still clutching her small sword, which felt like a toy after her failure to pierce the giant’s mail. One of the horses snorted above her, another subtle snipe from nature. Arya’s heart swelled again. Home was barely a memory.

* * *

They followed the swift shining river for several miles before it left the path and headed for higher land; the two unlikely companions continued through remoter fare, green but dull. Sometimes the girl argued with the big man, sometimes they exchanged curt necessities, but usually they trotted in silence, their inward lives a mystery to each other, almost themselves. If Arya’s sword were a toy, then her body was a reward, her mind a pot of revenge she longed to keep stirring, and which boiled again on the nights they kindled a fire. She thought she would go mad from the sound of hooves.

* * *

Arya’s sense of safety ebbed throughout their journey. If the Hound was not attacked he would not hurt you—unless you had something—and Arya had nothing but her name. A man with a deformed countenance and a savage reputation could be the ultimate security. But sometimes Arya trusted him more than herself: she had impulses, indignations, that bubbled to the surface when she least expected it. Her sword, named Needle, made a creaking sound against her stolen horse’s saddle. The moniker took on different shades as they rode— _dull_ landscape; the _need_ for fresh food, few and far between; a needle in a haystack.

* * *

She was sure the gods had lost track of the number of nights they had travelled together—but she was equally sure that they were laughing with especial interest when the batch of filthy thieves approached them, acute of the Hound’s size but otherwise insouciant. This was not the first such gang they would encounter, nor, ironically, the last Arya wished to see, given the slender of survival she invariably felt. As usual, the one in front spoke roughly, mockingly; as usual the Hound responded in kind; as usual swords were drawn; as usual Arya fingered her Needle, wishing her companion would let her slash and stab with equal impunity.

* * *

The gang had left them quite a trove: a few dead poultry; pouches of alcohol; tobacco (which the Hound immediately put into his mouth); daggers and fairly clean linen. The giant threw the last corpse over the edge of the road; the heavy sack of guts rolled consistently away, dry leaves tumbling around it. Arya was used to these scenes, but, like the instinct for survival, a trace of decency remained. She was, after all, ‘a rich kid’. The man and the girl rode on.

* * *

It must have been the nearness, or else the more frequent naming, of their destination that instilled in Arya a new anger, and when the two riders encountered another group of villains, the girl disobeyed her interminable instruction and leapt off her horse, sword drawn. In the midst of another miniature battle, the Hound turned and gave the girl a growl, before despatching another knifesman, and when Arya ducked a blow both protective and contemptuous, the Hound let himself rarely vulnerable: another man swerved in to attack, and got his sword lodged in the giant man’s armour. Naturally, this time the Hound did not give the offender a slap, as he had done Arya: the head leapt off its shoulders and flew into the nearby bushes, leaving a trail of bright red blood on the earth between. With that, the skirmish was over, and Arya was furious again.

‘Why can’t you let me fight?’ she shouted like a little animal. ‘I’ve killed a man before, haven’t I?’

The Hound spat on one of the corpses and moved threateningly toward her. ‘Aye, one when he was lying on the ground, another from behind, and one by accident! Some killer you are, you little brat.’

He grabbed her suddenly by the shoulder and gave her a shake. Arya gazed up at this freakish figure she had grown so used to, and wondered if anyone in the Known World could take such a face for granted. With her free hand she hit out at the links of metal, and quickly regretted it. The old dull pain on her mouth, and the ache of shoulder joint, was joined by stings in her small fingers. The Hound scoffed and grabbed her other arm.

Then he picked her up off the ground and glared into her face.

‘Another move like that and you’ll get to Riverrun in three pieces: two arms and the rest of you.’

Arya went limp in his vice-like grip, and a faint simper crossed her features.

‘Maybe I want to,’ she muttered at him. ‘Maybe the only way you can get me there is if you half kill me.’

And the thrill of pain overcame her, teased her, winked at her. She spat in his face, and laughed, then her throat was being seized by the giant, and her whole body rattled like a bag of chicken bones, and the fresh waves of pain that rang through her tired limbs was the next best thing to freedom.


End file.
